


A Wonderful and Radiant Warmth

by Silex



Category: Dark Souls I
Genre: Holding Hands, Hope, M/M, Memories, Osmosis Exchange fic, Pining, not sure if canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 09:31:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21371947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silex/pseuds/Silex
Summary: Solaire had no cause for hope, yet he tried none the less.There was no reason for him to think that this undead was any different from the others he had met on his travels and yet...
Relationships: Chosen Undead & Solaire of Astora
Comments: 3
Kudos: 29
Collections: Osmosis Exchange





	A Wonderful and Radiant Warmth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alana/gifts).

> This is for the Osmosis Exchange, an exchange for for fandoms that one has not participated in firsthand. To fans of the Dark Souls series, I have no clue what is and isn't accurate in this piece of writing. I have only watched others play the game years ago, and not in its entirety.

Solaire had no cause for hope, yet he tried none the less.

There was no reason for him to think that this undead was any different from the others he had met on his travels in this accursed land when he first encountered them in the ruins. Any hint of the state they were in was concealed by tarnished armor.

They moved with purpose and thus stood out in his memory.

It was possibly they were recently arrived in the land of the dead and still held hope of something more, a final rest or a final salvation, or if they were far gone and moved with mindless resolution towards a purpose they no longer knew.

At times he wondered what his own purpose in this place was, if it was the same as it had been when he first arrived or if time had worn it away to a shadow of what it had been. This was a place off shadows after all.

There had been light once, warmth, but was his memory of them true? So many of the undead were wasted to nothing, mindless and hostile, but there was a point between there and where he was, madness and desperation. Did he lie to himself when he remembered his life?

As the least it provided something to occupy his mind.

Later, as it grew dark, he saw light in the distance. Or perhaps his sight simply dimmed with the memory of twilight, for there was no time in this place. There was darkness and there was light, but there was no pattern to their passing. Still, there was light, and he was drawn towards it like a moth endlessly circling, trying to catch the moon until it fell to the ground, exhausted.

When had he last seen the moon?

When had he last felt the sun?

He brought a hand to his chest, shuddering against a chill he knew was imagined. Any cold he felt now ran deeper than that, a chilling of the soul into something small and withered. Madness would follow.

Unless he held onto his purpose.

As long as he had a goal he could stave it off.

So he traveled to the light, for it was a goal, fleeting as it was.

The same undead he had seen earlier was sitting at a bonfire, warming their hands.

At the sound of his approach they lifted their head, hand instantly at the sword they carried.

So it would come to this, as it always did. They didn’t remember him, if they remembered anything at all.

And he had thought he had found a kindred soul, another who held onto the ideal of something greater, no matter how small that greater was.

Something more than this wretched state.

Then, miracle of miracles, like a blessing from the gods that had forsaken them, the undead relaxed, the same hand that had grasped the sword lifted in a gesture of welcome.

Grateful Solaire approached, ready to sit across from them.

Instead they moved slightly to the side and patted the ground next to them.

An offer like that was not one to be turned down lightly. With as much care as he could manage in his armor he sat down in the offered space.

The fire was blazing brilliantly, its glow warm and welcoming.

The undead had banked it well, their intent to spend the night, or what passed for night in this place, clear in that and the pile of wood nearby.

That was a fine thing.

Their silence as they watched was courteous, inviting, making him wonder who they had been before, who they strived to remain.

He found himself speaking freely as he stared into the fire, vague shapes flickering, taking the form of memories that, until then, he hadn’t realized he’d nearly forgotten.

All the while his companion listened, nodding sympathetically from time to time and motioning for him to continue if he fell silent for too long.

In this place there was no sleep, no dreams, so he didn’t need to worry that he was keeping his companion from anything.

It was hard for him to tell, but there was something almost wistful in the way their helmed head was tilted towards him, as though he reminded them or someone.

Or perhaps his telling of his own misery and determination eased some of their own. To share a burden was to lessen it and they were both certainly burdened with the curse they bore.

But if that were the case it was selfish of him to continue when they had not yet said anything of their own circumstance, as though there was anything to be said.

He sought light, but in the end they all did. It was a common thread between all undead.

Why else would they be sitting at a bonfire, trying to rekindle the fleeting memory of true warmth?

His silence seemed to trouble them, the tilt of their head grew plaintive.

“Please,” he started, only for them to reach out and take his gauntleted hand in theirs.

He looked down at that hand, the fingers too withered to tell the story of them, of the person this undead was.

Those fingers tightened around his and he felt warmth.

Not just the memory, but a wonderful and radiant warmth.

This undead _was_ different, he had been right about that.

He just hadn’t grasped how much so until this moment.

They were hope, they were warmth.

If any in this wretched place had a chance of accomplishing anything it was them.

And for now Solaire was content to hold onto them, the memory of hope and light becoming real.

The night would eventually end with them going their separate ways, he knew, but the memory would last, giving him something to hold onto in the darkness ahead.

He prayed to any gods that would listen that after they parted that he might meet this undead again, see them in their moment of triumph and bask in that light, more brilliant than any remembered sun.


End file.
